Starting from Joe's on Washington Street, the hare led the pack through the rabbit warren that is known as Old Town, laying trail through parking garage after parking garage, then almost totally confusing us with a check back, which led us back to an intersection that forced us to scour the full 369 degrees of two parking lot hells.

After finally finding the hare's two-inch long faint chalk mark a half-block to the south, the pack abandoned its suicide pact and decided to continue on with life. We wound through alleys and more alleys, and found the beverage-near at Rain, home of cheap wells on Wednesdays. After downing many vodka concoctions, the hounds stumbled out the door and some were actually able to locate some of the marks. Others gave up and short-cutted to the on-in, while others walked around aimlessly hoping to find marks, other hashers, the sound of whistles, or kind strangers to point the way. Back at Joe's, all hounds were finally accounted for, and circle commenced. The usual falsehoods were flung, innocents were maligned, beer was drunk, food was ingested, and all was right with the world. On on.